Ross Macdonald - Lew Archer 01 - The Moving Target(aka Harper)(1949) by Ross MacDonald

I would have kicked the man on the pavement and
regretted it later - several years later.
                 Taggert
took hold of my arm and pulled me toward the mouth of the alley. A taxi with
one door open was standing at the curb. Across the street the stucco entrance
of the Wild Piano was deserted. He pushed me into the cab and got in after me.
                 “Where
do you want to go?”
                 My
brain was a vacuum for an instant. Then anger surged into the vacuum. “Home to
bed, but I’m not going. Swift’s on Hollywood Boulevard.”
                 “They’re
closed,” the driver said.
                 “My
car’s in their parking lot.” And my gun was in the car.
                 We
were halfway there before my brain caught up with my tongue. “Where in hell did
you come from?” I said to Taggert.
                 “Out of the everywhere into the here.”
                 I
snarled at him: “Don’t double-talk. I’m not in the mood.”
                 “Sorry,”
he said seriously. “I was looking for Sampson. There’s a place back there
called the Wild Piano. Sampson took me there once, and I thought I’d ask them
about him.”
                 “That’s
what I thought I’d do. You saw the answer they gave me.”
                 “How
did you happen to go there?”
                 I
couldn’t be bothered explaining. “I stumbled in. Then I stumbled out.”
                 “I
saw you coming out,” he said.
                 “Did
I walk out?”
                 “More or less. You had some help. I waited in the taxi to
see what gave. When the bruiser took you into the alley I came in after you.”
                 “I
haven’t thanked you,” I said.
                 “Don’t
bother.” He leaned toward me and said in an earnest whisper: “You really think
Sampson’s been kidnapped?”
                 “I’m
not thinking so well just now. It’s one idea I had when I was having ideas.”
                 “Who
would have kidnapped him?”
                 “There’s
a woman named Estabrook,” I said, “a man named Troy. Ever meet him?”
                 “No,
but I’ve heard of the Estabrook woman. She was with Sampson in Nevada a couple
of months ago.”
                 “In what capacity?” My bruised face felt like leering. I let
it leer.
                 “I
wouldn’t know for sure. She went there by car. The plane was out of commission,
and I was in Los Angeles with it. I never got to see her, but Sampson mentioned
her to me. As far as I could tell, they sat around in the sun talking about
religion. I think she’s a sidekick of this holy man Claude. The one Sampson
gave the mountain to.”
                 “You
should have told me before. That was her picture I showed you.”
                 “I
didn’t know that.”
                 “It
doesn’t matter now. I spent the evening with her. She was the woman I was with
in the Valerio .”
                 “She
was?” He seemed astonished. “Does she know where Sampson is?”
                 “It’s
possible she does, but she wasn’t saying. I’m going to pay her another visit
now. And I could use some help. Her household is a rather violent one.”
                 “Good!”
said Taggert.
                 My
reactions were still too slow, and I let him drive. He tended to bank on the
turns, but all went well until we got to the Estabrook house. It was dark. The
Buick was gone from the driveway, and the garage was empty. I knocked on the
front door with the muzzle of my gun. No answer.
                 “She
must have gotten suspicious,” Taggert said.
                 “We’ll
break in.”
                 But
the